Sit No More!

If it were up to me they’d be gone.  I’d blow them up.  They drive a wedge between us.  They turn an otherwise intimate, communal, possible once-in-a-lifetime musical experience into another evening of lazy-boy deflation in front of the tube.  Assigned seats in concerts need to be done away with.

Sunday night, my brother and I attended a long-awaited concert.  Fleet Foxes played at Constitution Hall in DC.  They were phenomenal.  Performing close to two-hours, covering their whole new album plus five highly demanded songs from their previous album, Fleet Foxes exceeded already high expectations. 

The instrumentation was flawless—from the guitar (electric and acoustic) to the stand-up bass, from the keys to the flute.  The rhythms thumped and the timing was tight.  This was all the more impressive considering Foxes consists of six members all plucking, strumming or pounding their respective instrument, of which can change hands on any given song.  But the main treat was the harmonizing caked on top of all this already fulfilling instrumentation. 

Robin Pecknold, the main vocalist and leader of the band (and only 25 years old), is truly something else.  His voice, lyricism, and overall demeanor draws you in while the frequent kicks of layered harmonizing by the guitarist and drummer send you afloat.  The quick switch from a rhythmic, punchy groove, to acappella harmony, then back to more punch, leaves you both breathless and energized.  The song writing is complex, layered, yet still simple.  I couldn’t help but think we were watching something special.  With the band averaging an age of 27 or so, they aren’t going anywhere soon.  I felt like we were all witnessing the Dylan/Neil Young/Lennon of our generation.  I realize that is a bold, possibly premature statement, but fuck it.  I think it’s true. 

So as my brother and I were sitting (sitting!) perched on the stages' left side, in awe of this performance, we couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. We felt straight jacket restriction.  We looked around the huge arena to see rows of seating everywhere, people dispassionately sitting like a movie was being projected on stage.  

There was one guy a few rows a head of us though.  He was standing, dancing, clapping and rocking.  But he didn’t have anyone sitting behind him to interfere with.  We were envious of this guy.  He was appreciating what he was seeing, hearing, and experiencing—and letting his body act accordingly.  We wanted to be rocking like this guy, but there were rows of sitting people behind us.   The show was amazing nonetheless, but still, the both of us left thinking that the dude rocking out probably had a more filling experience. 

As we left the show, I thought of the last show I went to, Patrick Sweany and James McMurty in Berkeley.  It was the same king of thing: a great venue, an intimate setting, and a wonderful performance.  But something was missing.  Everyone was sitting.  (The fact that the venue didn’t sell booze didn’t help either).

These two shows got me thinking. 

When I see live music, I can’t help but put myself in the shoes of the musician—this stems from my own experience playing.   From this experience, I know that any little bit of movement coming from the audience directly translates into the amount of energy the musician will put back into the show.  

But it’s not just about the musician either.  It works both ways.  If the audience gets into it, the musician will put more into it, thus making a better experience for everyone involved.  There are shared responsibilities.  The musician performs, and if he/she is doing their job, the audience moves—they sway, dance, clap, sing, and cheer.   The quality of a show can very well be determined by the movement and energy that an audience gives back to the musician.

Live music has always been important to me.  The shows I grew up attending, rock shows at small venues, never had seating.  They had open ground floors where everyone was jam-packed up towards the front of stage.  Everyone was shoulder-to-shoulder, feeling the sweat from your neighbor.  The music may have not been as intricate, complex, or of an overall quality as the shows I have attended lately.  But there was something special about the general admission open floor standing of those rock shows.  Everybody moving, rocking, dancing, and completely letting go of how they look or how they think they should look.  A crowd of people moved by music, bumping into each other, rubbing shoulders, and letting loose.  A crowd that got more than just an intellectually satisfying experience, but emotional satisfaction as well.  

Live music is not just about being entertained.  It’s about connection.  A live performance is a shared experience, an emotional sharing between musician and audience.  I left the Fleet Foxes show blown-away by their performance.  But I felt like we, as an audience, didn't do our part.  

Except for you, the guy rocking wildly a few rows ahead of us.   You carried the team. 

Blue Ridge Brothers

Made it back to SF from DC in one piece last night.  After a long day of travel yesterday, the five days are beginning to mush together, and I don't want it all to blur.  So I felt it was necessary to jot down some of the highlights of the five days:

1.  A smooth red-eye flight from SF to Minnesota to DC without any "Atlanta Encounters."  Such a breeze of a flight.  Sat next to a skinny man who never moved and had a keen awareness of himself in space.  My bag was the first out of the gate in baggage claim.  I didn't even have to break stride from plane to bag to car.  

2.  Cruising in John's new Subaru.

3.  Greasy-egg, potato-hash brunches.  Endless refills of coffee.  No time constraints/worries.  Ok, but probably too much coffee. 

4.  An hour swim in the DC Municipal Pool with John followed by ten (minutes, not guys) in the jacuzzi.  Finally, we both got to see each other in Speedos. 

5.  Beers, Basketball, Brothers & Bubba.  Will's train arrived from Phili, met us at John's apt.  Walked a block to delicious pizza and beer (most of which I had never tried before - east coast brew).  Walked next door.  Watched NBA Playoffs while being serenaded by the most unassumingly impressive guitarist/singer - think a more toned down Larry the Cable Guy. I'm sure his name wasn't Bubba, but I'd like to imagine it was. 

6. The three of us in John's studio.  Will and John sharing his (John's) full sized bed for a night.  Will assaulted by John's snoring, getting no sleep, and subsequently getting his own hotel room the next night. 

7. Walking around Georgetown with brothers.  All of us catching up on sleep during the critically-acclaimed- but in actuality critically-awful - movie "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" in 3D at AMC.  Half way through asking John if he was bored.  Him responding "very."  Us both dying of laughter like we were in church and not supposed to laugh. 

8.  A fifty-minute run through beautiful, green DC trails with John.  

9.  Comedy show @ Constitution Hall ft. Jim Norton, Bill Burr, Jim Brewer, and Dave Attell.  They all killed it.  But we're more partial to Burr. 

10.  A great visit with some of the East Coast Cousins and their adorable little monsters in Virginia.

11.  Going to the gym at 8 pm so John could stop jumping off the walls after his late-afternoon expresso.  Followed by dinner and drinks at "Breadsoda" with John and his neighbor Kara.  Watching John get hit on by members of a bachlorette party.  Later, proudly watching John try to convince the owner of Breadsoda that he (the owner) needs to put a skeeball machine in his bar.  Seeing the owner stroke his beard at the thought.  Bet he wasn't expecting to have this conversation tonight. 

11.  Making a second trip to the AMC theatre on a separate afternoon.  But this time seeing "Bridesmaids" - unfortunately not in 3D...  What?  Hey, I don't care.  It was hilarious!

12.  Fleet Foxes @ (again) Constitution Hall.  Unbelievable performance.  These guys will be (are) one of the best bands of our generation. 

A few not-so-highlight-worthy notes:

1. Being able to hear John's snoring, of which he says is "cute," over my industrial-strength earplugs.

2.  My trip sharing the same dates as the National Police Week Event in DC.  Sharing the flight back to Minnesota with 30 over-grown/White/bald/loud Minnesotan cops. My nostrils are still singed from whatever it was that these guys were producing.

The (No Longer) Mysterious Package

*Originally written on 5.05.2011

The case is closed.  The search is over.  It ended yesterday after hearing my phone go off at 10:00 a.m. while I was in the shower.  Tracy yelled, "Your brother *retracted* is calling!"  I immediately knew what he was calling about.  It was his package.  He sent it on accident.  He must not have changed the shipping address on his Amazon account after sending me a birthday gift a few weeks ago, I told myself.  Tracy and I are dying of laughter.  

I get out of the shower and check the voicemail.  "Uh, ha, hey dude... Well, you might be receiving a few misaddressed packages from me in the next few days..."  

I give him a call back, thinking he's totally pissed that I just blew up his spot on facebook.  He hadn't seen the post.  I haven't talked to him since.  

I mean, it could've been worse.  There are far more revealing and embarrassing things that could've been purchased on Amazon and accidently sent my way.  Just by way of example, after a brief perusing of Amazon's latest deals, these purchases could've been way worse:

1. A discounted year-long subscription to "Good Housekeeping Magazine" - 81% off!

2. "Hard Bitten" - the new softcover vampire thriller romance novel by Chloe Neill.

3. Or Justin Beiber's "Never Say Never" DVD - in 3D and only $17.99.

With these in mind, a dry scalp ain't so bad.  

Honestly though, I was really hoping this mystery would have continued for some time.  I imagined myself devoting far too much of my time trying to solve it.  Skipping class, meetings, and work just to figure out who this person is.  Who was this person trying to keep me safe on the streets and keep my scalp from drying?  As I told my brother, *retracted*, that when I was first dumbfounded by this package, I thought that maybe someone hacked into my account.  Maybe this person got my info and started tearing through Amazon with my credit card.  But then I had to scratch that idea, because why would this person then send the purchased items to my address?  

After telling my brother this, he stopped me and said, wait, maybe that is all true.  Maybe this person just happens to be the most thoughtful criminal on earth.  Maybe he figured I could use the dandruff shampoo and bike lights?  It's possible that this person figured that, ya know, the San Francisco weather is heating up all, maybe a moist scalp would really turn my month around?  Give me a fresh perspective heading into finals.  (The criminal knows this all about me b/c he has access to all of my info, remember).  And maybe the bike lights would be a nice pick-me-up heading into the summer.  He knows I will be working into the evening during the summer, and heaven-forbid I ride through Golden Gate Park on my way home without headlights.  These lights do burn out quickly, ya know; quick turnover.  

While I now have to go forth with the knowledge that this thoughtful criminal does not indeed exist, the thought of him or her has nonetheless helped me get through these last few days of the semester.  One more final tomorrow, then freedom for a few weeks.

But what I really want is for the thoughtful criminal to be out there... somewhere.

The Mysterious Package

*Originally written on 5.03.2011

Yesterday, I received a package in the mail from Amazon. I assumed it was a gift.   It had my correct name, address, everything. I was excited. I anxiously open the package to find two bottles of "prescription-strength" dandruff shampoo and lights for the front and back of a bike.

Thoughts: Did someone anonymously give me a belated birthday gift? And is this person implying that I need to improve my overall hygiene and safety?

The confusion continues...  But I will not tire until I get to the bottom of this!

On My First Tri - Part III

*Originally written on 4.15.2011


The Swim

I'm not sure if it's the sound or the cold that hits first.  No, it's the sound.  It's definitely the sound.  The sound of one-hundred people sprinting into an open body of water is unlike anything I've ever heard.  It almost sounds like the roar of a crowd of thousands, but it's so uniform and haunting. 

Five seconds ago the lake looked so peaceful and still.  Now, as the hundred of us are charging through it's shore and into it's body, it sounds - and feels - so violent.  I can't hear the person next to me.  I can't hear my own thoughts.  I can't see the blue of the water, only the white-water that we've all created.  Soon, as we continue to drive forward, I can't see the people in front of me.  One by one, they start diving in head-first like penguins.  The water is getting close to my waist.  I follow suit, dive head-first, and flail my arms forward and kick madly.  

The next nine minutes that follow are both the longest and shortest nine minutes of my life.  In these nine minutes, I range from thoughts of excitement and bliss, to thoughts of terror and possible failure; from thoughts of ecstasy, to thoughts of death (my own).

When I finally dive in, I realize, for one, that I can't see.  I can't see anything.  Where is the blue line at the bottom that I use as a guide in the pool?  This feels like running into oncoming traffic with a bucket covering your head.  It's totally scary.  When my head is submerged in the lake water, I'm completely blind.  I hear people flopping all around me.  I feel people crawling on my legs.  I think I just kicked someone.  Yea, I definitely kicked someone.  I can only see when I roll my head to the right to suck in some air above water.  Now seeing, I can't believe how cramped it is.  My heart is pumping so fast I can feel it in my throat.  I'm so out of rhythm.  I'm completely out of breath.  The water is absolutely freezing.  The wake that these hundred people are making feels like paddling out into an oncoming set of waves that come at all angles.  It is relentless.  And I'm only a minute in.  

Panic sets in.  For a moment, I'm convinced that this is how it ends.  Not just the triathlon, but possibly me.  One minute into the triathlon and I'm done.  I'm positive that I'm going to wake up in one of these red emergency kayaks back on shore, with Tracy and her parents hovering above me, looking down at me scared, sad and sorry for me.  I'll have to make up an excuse for what happened, for why I failed so miserably.  Hypothermia?  That might work. 

My voice of reason and strength kicks in, telling me to relax, that all is fine.  It tells me that I've swam a mile and half without stopping; that this is nothing.  I back it up a bit and regain composure.  But this doesn't mean I can stop - I'll sink or get run over.  I switch from freestyle to breaststroke, hoping to catch my breath and gain some rhythm.  Breaststroke allows me to keep my head above water for a little while longer and take deeper breaths with longer glides/floats.  Bringing my head above water, I realize how unbelievably freezing the water is.  It's like submerging my head into a cooler full of ice each time I dunk my head in for the stroke.  I feel pathetic doing the breaststroke, but then I look over to my right and see a guy floating along on his back, his arms flopping up and down in the air and into the water.  Oh my God, that guy is doing the backstroke.  At first, I muster up a small laugh to myself.  There's something about the backstroke that seems so lazy, or Homer Simpson-like.  But then I realize that I want to punch this guy in the face.  Is he showing me up?  I can't let this guy get ahead of me.  Not with the backstroke.  I switch back to freestyle.  

I still can't really catch my breath, and it doesn't even feel like I'm swimming fast.  The problem is, I can't hear myself when I pop my head to the right, just above water to inhale.  I can usually hear myself sucking in air when I'm in the pool.  Am I even breathing now? Having my own lane in an olympic sized pool did not prepare me for this.  I'm regretting never having done an open water swim before this race.  John, why didn't you warn me of this?  I'm hating you right now.  

I keep swinging my arms and kicking like mad.   I get to the buoy and circle around it.  We are heading back to shore.  I'm halfway there.  I make the turn around the buoy and my goggles fog up completely.  Now I can't see when my head is above water too.  I pull up the goggles with my right hand and put them I'm on my forehead.  I keep swimming freestyle.  I figure I couldn't see anything with the goggles on anyway.  I finally start to get into a rhythm when I look forward to see people are starting to emerge from the water on their feet.  The land can't come soon enough.  

I stop my freestyle to step down to touch the land.  I've never felt so happy to be on land.  I see people running out of the water and up the shore.  When the water is at my ankles, I start running up the shore, toward the transition.  I look down at my watch and it reads, "10:09."  I have to look at it twice to make sure that isn't an error.  It always takes me 18 minutes to swim a half-mile in the pool.  I never go faster or slower.  It's always 18 minutes.  I just swam that in 9 minutes?  Holy shit.  No wonder I couldn't catch my breath.  

I can't feel my hands or feet, but I keep running.  I see Tracy and her parents.  Trace shouts, "Start stripping!"  I was confused for a second - I mean, her parents are right there.  But then I look around and it dawns me - the people running next to me are unzipping their wetsuits as we run toward the transition station.  I keep running and start unzipping.  

The Bike

I get out of wetsuit and change into my cycling gear.  I hop on my bike and head for the trail.  My head is still in a fog from the freezing water.  I still can't feel my feet or hands.  But all in all, I'm happy to be on land and on my bike.  I'll warm up in a few miles.  Mountain biking and running are my comfort zone, I've been doing them for years.  Tracy and I have been riding trails with 2-hour climbs.  I'm feeling good. Here we go.  

The trail seems nice, but it's thin and tight.  It's a single track, which means single-file riding, no side by side, which might make for some interesting passes.  I cleanly swerve around the first muddy-puddle, trying to stay clean and regain warmth.  

A few minutes in, I realize the idea of dancing around the muddy puddles is hopeless.  The mud is everywhere.  Today might be free of rain, but the previous two weeks saw non-stop downpour. Every corner I turn, every hill I climb, every hill I descend from, there is a massive swamp waiting to greet me, each one different from the other.  One has a few boulders hidden from plain sight, waiting to derail your front tire (or your girlfriend's) and send you over the handle bars; the other has mud that is mixed with sand creating quicksand that can plunge your tires two-to-three feet under ground.  

I've never dealt with anything quite like this.  So, at first, I approach these swamps with timidity. I figure if I go slowly enough through them, I'll make it to the other side.  I test this theory.  I approach a new swamp, tap the brakes and slowly enter.  My bike comes to a dead stop.  I quickly unclip my right foot from the pedal and step to the right before tipping over.  My whole right leg is swallowed by the mud, up to my kneecap.  I quickly struggle to pull my leg out before causing a pile up of bikes.  The guy behind me just swerves around me to the left.  He manages to yell out as he rides by, "Wooo!  Happened to me a mile ago!  Whole leg swamped!  Right on!"  Then he's gone.  These people are crazy.  But I'm beginning to love them.

I developed a new game plan.  I have to set my bike into a high gear when approaching the swamps and drive my legs as hard and as fast as I can.  It worked.  

Every mile there were about seven to ten of these swamps.  And making it through each one was harder than climbing any steep hill that can be thrown at you.  But my game plan worked.  I would psyche myself up each time I came up to one of these monsters.  I pumped my legs like I was driving a sled at football practice.  I was like a running back driving through the middle, getting hit from both sides.  I had to stay low.  I had to focus on my breath.  I had to be aware of my core, of my balance.  But most importantly, I had to keep pumping my legs.  I did not anticipate this.  I didn't feel prepared for this particular situation.  But football had actually prepared me perfectly for this.  I survived.  I made it through the ride - even without brakes.  And with a few good stories. 

A lot of people's brakes wore out.  Mine wore out half way through the ride.  The water, mud, grass, rocks, and sand had all taken its toll on our bikes.  I guess this sort of thing is just expected.  I thought it had something to do with my lack-luster care of my bike throughout the years.  But I didn't realize that I wasn't alone until I pulled off to finally take a pull of gatorade after a steep climb.  Pulling off, I hear a guy climbing up the hill.  He is huffing and puffing.  He gets to the top and stops for a second next to me.  

"I'm fucking cramping up, man" he says, sucking wind.  "This mud is ridiculous, man! And, my damn brakes are completely shot!  Oh well, almost there.  See ya man.  Looking great."  He heads off down the hill while I look on without being able to say much.  I put the gatorade back in the holder and hop back on the bike.  I'm behind my new friend as we charge down the hill.  He's a good space ahead of me.  I'm starting to wonder if I heard him wrong, because he doesn't look like someone who doesn't have brakes.  He's flying down this hill and looks in control.  But then again, we haven't had to make a turn yet, it's all been straight away.  But, oh, there's a sharp right turn ahead.  This will be intere...

Before I can finish the thought, my new friend is ejected from his seat like a missile.  He is five feet in the air, flying off the cliff and into the bushes, while his bike makes the right hand turn without him.  He looks like a frightened squirrel making his first leap from one tree branch to another, his arms and legs completely sprawled out.  I probably wouldn't have laughed if it weren't for him screaming "ooooooooohhhhh  shhhhheeeeiitttt!!!" as he flew off the grid.  

Not being able to stop myself, I yelled out my own vocal life-vest, asking if he was alright.  He said he was.  I kept on down the hill making the right hand turn, dodging his bike.  

The Run

My legs are complete jelly by the time I get off my bike and change.  My hamstrings and quads feel like a wrench is clenched around them, tightening at each movement. The bike ride alone took about two hours, and now I have four miles of trail running left.  I know I can do four miles, but after that ride I'm beginning to worry about cramping and injury.  My legs have never experienced this.  I hope the hills aren't too bad.

I hit the trail and actually feel okay.  I feel strong, but it's probably because it's flat right now.  I pass a few handful of people.  I pass a guy who is completely cramped up, holding his hamstring.  He keeps me aware of the possibility of injury.  I shouldn't push it.  I should stay within myself and remember that my goal is just to finish this thing.

I get about a mile and a half into the run and I'm completely alone.  The trail is beautiful: there are endless trees covering me; there is a stunning view of the lake on my left; there are birds chirping.  The trial has some serious inclines and descents - and still more mud.  I'd always heard of people getting emotional during long endurance events, such as marathons or Ironman.  I'd seen these people on television crying as they came close to the end - as they ran across the finish line, or with five miles left, or whenever.  But I didn't think that would happen to me.   

I didn't think I'd be a few miles away from finishing my first triathlon and have tears coming down my face.  I didn't think the race would take that much out of me to even get me to that place.  But it did.  Or maybe it wasn't what the race did to my body, but something else.  Maybe it was that I could suddenly see clearly.

The race had finally cut through everything and brought everything to light.  It brought me to the point of seeing how much my life has changed in the past five years.  The race allowed me to finally see clearly.  It allowed me to see how one simple purchase of a mountain bike could so drastically alter the course of my life.  

The emotions came rushing.  All of the sudden I could see myself in the bike shop buying the bike with John and my mom in 2006.  I could see how unhappy and confused I was when I moved home and changed colleges.  I could feel the joy of my first ride with John.   I could see my dog Mollie running through the trails with me, as she was who I first discovered trail running with, but who died exactly a year from this day.  I could see all the memories I had on the trails at home; all the self-knowledge I gained there that led me to philosophy, to law, to San Francisco, to Tracy, to swimming, to this moment.  It was a surreal moment.  

After thinking about this for a few weeks now, the best explanation I can come up for what this was like is this: it is probably the closest thing I'll get to what its like when you're life flashes in front of your eyes.  But, luckily in this case, I didn't die right after this moment.  Well, I did still have a few miles left, so you never know.  

After I went through this rush of emotions, I cleaned up my face and kept charging forward.  The trail took us out of the woods and onto a fire-road/public street for a minute.  Tracy's dad Dale pulled up next to me on his bike for a minute, asking if I needed some water.  I did.  And lucky for me, it was after I had pulled myself together, so I didn't have anything that needed explaining, or did I risk losing any manliness points.  

A few miles later, and a few climbs later, I was in the final one-hundred yards of the race.  There was a guy in front of me who had to pull off to the right of the trial.  He looked like he was either getting pumped full of electricity or had the bad luck of having some voodoo spell cast upon him.  His body was in full-on spasms.  He looked like a rubber man trying to run.  He had debilitating cramps. I worried I might suffer from the same fate. 

I charged forward.  I was going to make it.  

I crossed the finish line at my strongest pace yet, with Tracy and her parents there waiting and encouraging.  

I was euphoric. 

Finishing Thoughts

After the race, it all made sense.  I finally understood why people subject themselves to this sort of masochist event and lifestyle.  It's not just about you, or your own personal sense of accomplishment - while that is one super important reason, its not the only one.  

Its the community.  Its about the lifestyle and the camaraderie. 

As we get older, more set it in our ways, and more narrow in the bubble of people we interact with, there is a growing disconnect between yourself and others.  Unless we grew up together, work together, or go to school together, it becomes increasingly difficult to talk about anything other than the weather, sports, or the news.  

With triathlon, there is an immediate connection.  The person swimming next to you, riding next to you, or running next to you, lives a similar lifestyle as you.  Even if that person is a construction worker, while you are a surgeon, you can connect.  When I was climbing up a steep, muddy hill, the guy behind me wasn't hoping I would fail.  He was shouting at me to "keep driving!" and encouraging me when he said I was "almost there!"  He knew that I was suffering just like he was.  He knew that I worked hard every day for a few months to even attempt this.  There is a mutual respect.  When I got passed up on the muddy trail by a guy with a prosthetic leg, I wanted to cry.  I wanted to know his story.  I wanted to hug him.  I wanted him to win.

With triathlon, a conservative police officer and a liberal public defender can talk about riding through the mud with the same level of excitement as they would when they were five-year olds on the playground.  I think that, at its core and at its best, that is what people are striving for when they attend a church regularly, a connection to the others around them.  

I can't know how many triathlons I will be able to complete, but I know I want more.  And not just for the personal accomplishment, but for everything that its brings.  

Thank you, John.

On My First Tri - Part II

*Originally written on 4.07.2011


5:00 a.m.

My eyelids fly open.  My arm flops uncontrollably toward my beside table, almost crushing the alarm clock.  I didn't think I was even asleep, but I guess I was.  The alarm's buzzer was more startling than usual.  I'm wide awake.  My heart feels like it's already been caffeinated - the mental fog seems to have already lifted.  But it's only five am, why am I wide awake?  Why is my heart pounding like it's had two pots of coffee?

The triathlon.  That's what my body is trying to tell me. 

"Triathlon. Triathlon! Triathlon!!  Hello, you moron!  Let's go!" says every part of my body, to my now comprehending mind.  "You're lucky we even let you sleep last night!" my body says, continuing it's pestering.  "Jesus, man."  

I pounce out of bed.  No need for the usual snooze button routine.  No need for the never justified, but always appealing, "just 10 more minutes" negotiation.  My body knows it has to prepare for this thing.  There are things it needs and it is making demands:

1. Freshly cut strawberries, two cut-up bananas, yogurt, granola, all to be consumed out of a tupperware container at approximately seven a.m., exactly two hours before race time.  

2. It needs sufficient time to make a Starbuck's stop on the way to the race for a huge coffee - also to be consumed at seven a.m.  

3. It needs to get to the race with plenty of time to visit his complicated but always reliable friend in times of need, Porto Potty. 

My body is putting pressure on my mind to remember everything that I packed the previous night.  It needs the wetsuit, the goggles, the towel, the swim cap, the mountain bike, the clip-in shoes for the mountain bike, the jersey, the helmet, the socks, the running shoes, and it especially needs the spandex that are to be the only constant in the race.  The spandex are to be worn underneath the wetsuit, during the ride, and during the run.  If I don't have the spandex, the transitions would be, well, awkward for everyone.  

I made a check-list of everything that was needed and check it compulsively.  Tracy helps me.  "And you're sure you have the Body Glide?" she asks.  "Check," I respond.  "The spandex?" she asks.  "Check," I respond.  "And the directions?"  "Yepp."  I feel like I'm in a scavenger hunt - a very strange one.  

5:30 a.m. 

The car is loaded.  We are ready to roll.  Trace and I both looked over the check-list a dozen times each and felt secure.  Trace hops behind the wheel, I crawl into the passenger seat.  She takes a big sip of her tea, throws the Escape into reverse, backs out of the garage, and we're off.  

The whole city is asleep.  Its beautiful.  The sun isn't even up yet, and won't be for at least another hour.  The only other car on the road is a small mini-coup with a bike strapped to the top.  For a moment, I get excited and wonder if they are going to the Xterra too.  But as we get closer, I realize that it is a road bike on the top of their car, not a mountain bike.  I realize I should probably tone down the solipsism a bit.  I think this a natural tendency and a shared feeling, that when you're excited or scared about somewhere you're going or something you're about to do, to think that the person driving next to you, or walking next to you, is doing the same thing as you, going to the same place as you.  Because the only thing that matters in the whole world is what you are about to do, the place you are going.  And because, well, lets face it, if they aren't going where you are, then chances are they must be pretty lame. 

The mini-coup and us are going the same way for a while, but once we hit Highway 80 they are gone and replaced by a small handful of cars - maybe going the same place as us?

6:00 a.m. 

We have another hour and a half until we arrive in Folsom.  I feel in a state of limbo between my life in San Francisco and the impending triathlon.  It's a suspended feeling, but a safe one.  It's still dark outside.  The initial startle of my alarm clock, of everything I had to do before we left, of everything I have to put my body through in a few hours, it has all dissolved.  My body has stopped with it's pestering.  At this moment, I feel completely content.  I drift off.  

6:45 a.m. 

I think its the sun that wakes me up.  I try to be a better passenger and engage Tracy in conversation.  I can see she's getting tired.  I'm feeling very grateful for my co-pilot.  She has been my partner, my sanity, my everything.  We both trained for this race, not just me.  We did almost every workout together, side-by-side.  She is just as ready for this race as I am.  I wish she were joining me.  

We're almost there.  Making great time.

7:00 a.m. 

Starbucks.   I never realized how big a venti is.  Probably a bad idea.  

7:30 a.m. 

We arrive.  

Wow.  The Lake is breathtaking.  It's breathtaking for two reasons: one, for its beauty and vastness; two, because I realize this is my opponent.  This is what could sink me.  

I have to swim across this?  Do I have to swim across this whole thing?  Is that half a mile?  I don't know.  Oh man.  I've never done an open-water swim.  Is that whole lake 36 laps in the pool?  No, there's no way.  Oh God.  No, It can't be.  My mind is racing.  

I walk across the parking lot, from our car to the registration booth.  I'm surprised that their aren't that many cars there.  Is this not a big race?  Oh, that's great.  Less people, more room, a decreased likelihood of getting trampled on during the swim and ride.  

But then I found out that we are there very early.  The race doesn't start until 10:00, not 9:00.  I'm relieved in one sense, but more stressed in another sense.  This means more time waiting. Now that I'm here, I don't want to think about all the horrible things that could happen. How many people are actually in this race?  How many people are like me, doing this for the first time?  I don't want to see all the super-fit and experienced triathletes strutting around confidently, like they know something I don't know.  I just want to get in there.  

I register, get all the information I need and head back to the car.  I don't fully appreciate the extent of my nerves until I start eating my yogurt, fruit and granola breakfast.  I know I'm hungry, but my body's fight-or-flight response is kicking in.  It doesn't want to digest anything.  It has other things to focus on.  It wants to make sure there's enough adrenaline pumping to each part of my body.  It wants to get rid of anything coming in.  If anything, it only wants water.  

Luckily, I'm able to get everything down.  But it's not long before I have to visit Porto.  Thankfully, I'm the first one to meet with Porto, which means he will be in a decent mood - more pleasant, less abrasive.  

Porto was in the best mood I've ever encountered.  Things are looking on the up and up! 

8:00 a.m. 

I really have two hours before this starts? 

I start getting everything set up.  I pull the mountain bike out of the back of the Escape.  I grab the handle bars and flip the bike over, upside down.  This makes it easier when putting the bike back together again.  I grab the detached front wheel that is still in the car.  I put the wheel into the frame, it fits perfectly.  I tighten up the bolts and give it a pull to make sure its snug.  Everything looks good.  

Its been two weeks since the tires have been pumped.  I grab the pump out of the back of the car and go for the front tire first.  

"Wait, what?  What is this?  I don't have this thing on my.... Tracy, I don't have this cap on the air filter of my tire.  Oh my god!  Tracy!  This is your front tire!"

"Oh no, oh no.  How did this...  What are we... Is this still going to..."

In these few seconds, I'm convinced that this is it.  That this is the end.  This is how my first triathlon goes.  I train, I show up, get totally ready, and I can't race because of my own stupidity.  I won't be able to race because I grabbed Tracy's front tire out of our apartment instead of mine.  I'm convinced that it is all over.  I'm furious.  

Tracy, being blessed with the propensity to laugh at inappropriate times, cannot contain her laughter.  

I go from anger, to sadness, to confusion, to laughter.  I realize that the bike will still work, as the tire fit in the frame perfectly.  We were clearly able to put the tire on just fine.  So I flip the bike over and hop on.  It works.  Thank God it works.  The tire is a little smaller than mine, but it works.  

Now I gotta get the mountain bike set up at the transition station.  I have to get everythingset up at the transition station.  I have to have the towel laid out next to the bike.  The biking and running shoes need to be on top, with their laces undone, with one sock in each.  I need to tie my racing number on the front of the bike.  I need to have my helmet on the handle bars of the bike.  Need to have my jersey in a place that is easily accessible, with Gu gel packets tucked neatly into the back pocket of my jersey, where the confirmation receipt of this race once hid.  Don't want to regret lost time on simple logistics that could have been prevented. 

I need to find the women who are asking for our race numbers.  I find them and tell them my number, unsure of what will happen next.  They tell me to lift up the leg of my sweatpants.  Okay.  They ask for my age.  Okay.  The next thing I know, there are two women attacking me sharpies.  They have my shirt sleeves lifted, my sweatpants lifted.  They are writing all over me.  Tracy is busting up. 

They are done and moving on the next person before I know what happened.  In a bit of tizzy, I look down and realize there is "226" written on my arms and "24" written on my legs.   I feel assaulted.  But I get over it.  

9:00 a.m. 

Tracy's parents arrive.  This brings levity and a sense of, "oh yea, the world still exists outside this small event." 

Still getting everything ready. 

Getting into my wetsuit proves more difficult than getting into the wetsuits I surf in.  Triathlon wetsuits are a whole different breed.  They are impossibly tight.  If you don't have any sort of body lubricant, such as Body Glide, it can take up to 10 - 15 minutes just getting in one of these things.  

The Body Glides helps tremendously.  Man, this thing is tight.  But it does unjustly improve the appearance of my physique.  I'll take it.

9:45 a.m. 

Now I'm really nervous. 

One last pee.  Hi again, Porto.

9:55 a.m 

I'm toe-to-toe with my opponent.  

I've run down from the car, across the beach and down to the shore.  Now I'm starring across the lake, my frozen toes now touching the lake for the first time.  

What a scene.  I look around me and finally appreciate the people around me.  I finally appreciate how many people are actually doing this - the type of person who is doing this.  I'm in the middle of a crowd of one hundred-plus freaks.  One-hundred-plus freaks who, for the most part, are all over 30.  I'm simultaneously inspired and frightened.  

Everyone's yelling and hollering.  Everyone's jumping up and down.  Everyone is freezing and we haven't even jumped in the water yet.  Its not until now when I fully realize how incredible this event is.

This scene reminds me of being in the tunnel before a playoff football game, about to charge the field and tear through the paper-banner.  The energy is the same, the nerves are the same.  The preparation is the same, the anticipation is the same, the camaraderie feels the same.  With our wetsuits and blue swimcaps, we all have our gear on.  We are ready to charge.  We are ready to win.

9:59 a.m.

"5...4...3...2...1... Go!  Go!  Go!"